Dangerous Beauty

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Vaughn glanced at Piggot, and nodded. “Piggot.” That was the full extent of his acknowledgement, and it told her that Vaughn didn’t like Piggot, either. Vaughn was not one to hide his feelings.

  Vaughn was turning to Seth. “Williams, isn’t it? Oxford. 1822?”

  Seth shook his head. “Sorry. Harrow, Seth Harrow.” He held out his hand.

  Vaughn took the offered hand, frowning. They stood eye to eye and he cocked his head a little. “Really?” Then he shook his head, like he was clearing his thoughts. “I apologize for my mistake. You bear a striking resemblance to an old friend. We both shared a miserable time, our first years at Eton.”

  Seth shrugged and spread his hands. “I’m a simple sea captain.”

  Vaughn nodded. “I see that,” he said, pointing to Seth’s earring.

  Elisa touched Vaughn’s arm. “You did promise me a waltz.” Her voice was delightfully musical. Vaughn glanced at the musicians settling back into their chairs on the dais, then offered Elisa his arm.

  Elisa pressed a card into Natasha’s hand. “Please call on us,” she said. “I would be delighted to receive you.”

  Natasha slipped the card into her pocket. “I will,” she promised. It was a promise she knew she would keep.

  The two glided onto the dance floor. Natasha looked at Seth. All good humor had left him.

  Piggot seemed very quiet as well. “Will you both excuse me?” he asked. He didn’t wait for their reply, but slipped away.

  She looked up and found Seth watching her, his gaze gliding over her, from the diamonds in her hair, to the bows on her silk slippers, stopping only briefly at the low neckline of her gown. Why did she suddenly feel as though she stood naked in a room full of clothed people?

  “What was Fairleigh to you?” he asked, his voice so low no one else could hear.

  Natasha cleared her suddenly dry throat. “We were engaged once.”

  His dark brows lifted. “Ah. That would explain the change in your complexion.” Thankfully he did not give her that flash of sympathy she so despised.

  “Vaughn is a wonderful man. He treated me with nothing but kindness and respect.”

  He leaned forward, his lips grazing her ear. “His wife must be an inordinately astounding woman for him to have bypassed you.” His hot breath against her ear made the blood in her veins sizzle.

  “Thank you, Mr. Harrow, but you do not have to compliment me.”

  “That was the truth, Lady Natasha. I wouldn’t bother with complimenting one such as you.”

  “Why not?” she asked before she could stop herself. “Because you hate the trappings of this world as much as I do. You have heard many compliments, but don’t believe any of them.”

  She licked her lips. “How do you know that?”

  He pointed to the rose in her hand. “I read your face. And I know these people…” He waved his hand around the room, including everyone there. “Your parents want you to marry, but you have no wish to be tied to a husband. You look as though you’d rather be anywhere else than at this ball, possibly even this country. You are looking for a place where you can be yourself.”

  She swallowed hard. How had he read her so plainly? How could he know her most secret thoughts, when not even her mother knew she yearned for so much more in life than to be a pretty ornament for a peer of the realm?

  “You are right, Mr. Harrow. For many years I wanted only to make my parents happy in that regard, but no longer.”

  “What happened?” There was an expression in his eyes, an interest there, that told her he would understand, would perhaps even empathize.

  “I met Vaughn and fell in love with him,” she confessed. “And you have not found a man who can replace him?” he asked, his voice matter-of-fact.

  She shook her head. “No, that’s not it at all. Vaughn—Lord Fairleigh—taught me how much more there was to life than my parents’ ambitions for me. And no man can give me that…”

  “Freedom?” he asked.

  Her heart jumped. “Yes.” He watched her with those silver eyes, not missing even her smallest reaction. Nervous and embarrassed she’d been so blunt, her gaze shifted to his cravat and then lower to his wide chest. It did not help her uneasiness. Seth Harrow had the body of a man used to long hours onboard a ship. Even now, fully clothed, she could imagine what he looked like bared to the waist. Hard muscle would contract beneath his olive skin with each movement. The corded sinew gave him a chiseled perfection the majority of the men she knew would never attain because of their pampered lifestyle, where eating and drinking were their only sport.

  He reached up and brushed a wayward lock of hair from his face. She wished the gloves did not cover his long-fingered hands. He’d have masculine hands, no doubt callused and roughened from the hard work they had seen.

  An image entered her mind, of long-fingered hands sliding around her bare waist, and she shivered.

  “Is Piggot one of your suitors?” he asked, bringing her thoughts back to the present.

  “I fear that he will be calling on me soon. My mother seems to favor him.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “Yet you do not?”

  She pursed her lips. “I do not.”

  His gaze eyes flitted over the crowd, and Natasha felt his sudden disinterest like a slap to the face. How young and ridiculous she must seem to him, standing here complaining about her life.

  “Who is it you search for?” she asked.

  “An old friend,” he confessed, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Do you know Countess Innesford?”

  Natasha nodded. “Yes, I do. She and my mother attended a soiree just last week.”

  That caught his attention. “Do you know if she has arrived?”

  The countess, though only sixty, was not a woman who liked to dance. On the contrary, once she sat, she rarely moved, preferring to watch everyone else’s affairs with an eagle eye. She had always seemed sad to Natasha, no doubt because her husband had been ill for quite some time.

  Natasha looked for and spotted the countess sitting with a small group of older women talking amongst themselves. “There she is. Shall I introduce you?”

  “Please,” Seth said, straightening his jacket and standing taller. He extended his arm and Natasha took it, feeling the muscles beneath her fingers clench. Was he nervous? Who was the countess to him?

  They stopped before Countess Innesford, who lifted her chin to examine Natasha.

  Natasha’s gaze lifted to Seth. He had gone completely still. She could feel him trembling.

  “Lady Innesford, I would like to introduce a friend of mine.”

  Lady Innesford smiled at Natasha and turned to acknowledge Seth. Abruptly, her smile disappeared. She stood up, almost knocking over the chair in her haste, facing Seth. She had gone quite pale.

  Natasha stared at the older woman. The countess was always composed. She had never seen her at a loss for words…until now.

  “Seth Harrow, may I present Countess Innesford. Lady Innesford, this is Seth Harrow, Captain of the good ship…” She looked at Seth to supply the name of his ship.

  “The Artemis.” Seth stepped forward and lifted the countess’ hand. He bowed low over it.

  “Harrow?” the countess murmured. Then she nodded. “Mr. Harrow.” She shook her head, as though to clear it, then abruptly pulled her hand from his.

  Seth straightened up and stepped back. He was pale. “Please excuse me.” He nodded to Countess Innesford. “My lady.” Without another word he turned on his heel and left.

  The countess watched his departure. “How do you know him, Natasha, dear?”

  “I only just met him,” Natasha replied. She hid her fury. How dare the countess treat Seth so horribly! “He is a sea captain, and an associate of Lord de Henscher.”

  “A commoner,” the countess said with a sniff.

  Natasha lifted her chin. “I admire him.”

  The countess smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You know so very little of men,
dearest Natasha. Stay away from Mr. Harrow. Men like him are dangerous. They promise you the world, then leave you with nothing.” She sighed heavily, and her hand on her walking cane trembled. The countess had a reputation for being unflappable, yet a simple Irish sea captain had managed to completely fluster her.

  But the countess swiftly recovered her composure, turning to skewer Natasha with one of her piercing glances. “I saw you speaking to Lord and Lady Fairleigh. I am surprised you would give them the time of day considering what a fool they made of you—barging into your party and announcing for all the world to hear that he would marry that whore. He is fortunate you are even civil.”

  Natasha forced a smile. “Lord and Lady Fairleigh are, and will always be, dear friends of mine, Lady Innesford.”

  The countess shook her head. “One day you will learn that there are people in this world that do not deserve forgiveness.”

  “Everyone deserves to be forgiven.”

  “Not everyone, dear.” Her lips quirked. “When you have lived as long as I, you too, will understand this truth.” And she turned her head to look back in the direction Seth had disappeared.

  Chapter Four

  Seth climbed the stairs blindly. He took them two at a time in his haste to leave the stuffy, overfilled ballroom. His heart hammered in his chest, whispering “Faster!” with each galloping beat.

  He had to stay controlled. Now was not the time to let his damned temper loose. He had traveled too far and waited too long to beckon disaster to him—as he would surely do if he didn’t rein in his mood and his tongue.

  But he could not catch his breath to save his life, for ugly guilt kept battering at him.

  What had happened to his mother? When he had been forced out of Ireland, fifteen years ago, she had been a vibrant woman in her fortieth year. In fifteen years she had aged twice that. Covered in unrelieved black from head to toe, her body had become frail.

  Her eyes had been as hard as ice, though, as she had stared at him as if he were no better than an insect. Worse, he had seen a fleeting moment of recognition, then felt the instant rejection—all in one heartbeat. She had ripped her hand from his, as though she could not stand his touch, and that was the worst hurt.

  His mother hated him. No—she loathed him.

  His stride lengthened, until he was pounding down the long, carpeted passageway, each heel striking a muffled blow against the pile. He reached the end of the dark, shadowed hallway, and knew he could not afford to return yet. He was not ready to face her again.

  He opened the nearest door and shut it firmly behind him and took a deep breath. Silence, and blessed stillness. Dark shadows, relieved only by a solitary, forgotten oil lamp sitting on a dark mahogany desk in the far corner, where a scatter of papers, a heavy ashtray with the remains of a cigar and a brandy balloon with a puddle of gold liquid at the bottom sat, abandoned.

  A man’s room. It wasn’t the Artemis. There was no small breeze ruffling his hair, no gentle, soothing rocking of deck boards beneath his feet. Seawater did not gurgle under the running bows, but it would serve as an escape for now.

  He looked around, as the overwhelming pounding of his heart subsided, taking in the dark paneling, the tall bookcases, the settee and pair of leather wingback chairs. On a low sideboard behind the desk was a large silver tray, laid out with crystal decanters, lace doilies and a silver ice bucket.

  Seth lifted the first carafe his hands fell upon, dumped the stopper and drank deep. After the initial hard bite, the liquor warmed its way down to his knotted stomach.

  He saw again his mother’s icy eyes and felt the little jerk as she pulled her fingers from his and gripped the narrow neck of the bottle harder, drawing another deep breath.

  He had expected anger. In the last fifteen years he had played out in his mind every conceivable variation of his return to London and he had known anger was inevitable. Mary Williams was pure Irish. It was from her he had acquired his black Irish temper. His personal acquaintance with the beast told him that when he finally faced his mother once more, anger was as sure to rise as the sun he watched each morning from the deck of the Artemis.

  No, it was not the anger that dismayed him. He took another long swig, closing his eyes to push away the memory of her cold gaze. She had stared at him as though he were a stranger.

  * * * * *

  Free at last of the attention of the countess, Natasha hurried after Seth. He had been far ahead of her, but she had seen him bounding up the stairs as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. At the top he’d turned right. Clearly, he did not intend to leave the ball, and while he remained in the building, she would find him, no matter what. Man he may be, and a confident sea captain, but somehow the countess had hurt him. The bleak expression in his eyes had been unmistakable.

  She hurried across the ballroom floor as fast as the crush of people would allow her and finally made the stairs. She picked up her skirts and climbed up the center of the wide flight, avoiding the congestion at the handrails. She would have liked to have taken them two at a time, in the same manner as Seth, but knew she would not recover from such exertion while laced in so tightly.

  She made the top of the stairs and clutched at her cinched-in corset, feeling her heart shudder against the stays with a fluttering beat that scared her. She walked as quickly as her breath would allow her down the corridor.

  On the right it was open to the ballroom below, protected only by the same thick stone balustrade that adorned the stairs. There were people standing there, watching the dancers below and gossiping amongst themselves. They took no notice of her passing. The corridor turned sharply to the left and along this length there were very few people, for the corridor merely led further into the building.

  There were narrower corridors leading off from it—service hallways, she assumed. She glanced down one as movement caught her eye and found herself coming to a complete halt, her eyes widening.

  The service hallway ended with a blank, unadorned door, but standing in front of the door were Vaughn and Elisa. They stood facing each other, their shoulders brushing the door and they were both so absorbed in each other they failed to notice her standing at the other end of the corridor, her mouth opening in shock.

  The pair was in each other’s arms and Natasha was instantly reminded of the naughty books she hid under her mattress. Vaughn bent over his beautiful wife, his mouth plundering hers. His tongue slid over her lips, tasting them, as his arms held her tightly against him. Natasha stepped quietly to the corner of the corridor, so that she was all but hidden by the wall and unashamedly watched, as her heart thundered and her whole body seemed to throb along with it.

  Vaughn bore Elisa backwards until her back met the wall behind her, his hands about her waist. He gave her a wicked grin, kissed her firmly but swiftly on the mouth, before moving his lips over her throat, following the long, graceful curve down to her chest. His hands were busy behind her dress and as he reached the slope of the top of her breasts with his mouth, the top of her dress sagged around her shoulders.

  Elisa gave a small sigh that was almost a chuckle of laughter, her head rolling back against the wall and her eyes closing. She did not seem alarmed by Vaughn’s actions. When he tugged at the dress, to bare her breasts, she buried her fingers in his hair and drew his head to them. Vaughn began to lick and stroke one of the pale colored nipples with his tongue, tugging on it with his teeth and Elisa made a noise that was more primal than anything Natasha had ever heard. Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her hand in Vaughn’s hair.

  Understanding burst through Natasha. Elisa wanted that sort of attention. She welcomed it. She even deliberately sought the attention by not wearing a corset beneath her dress, making herself completely accessible for her husband.

  Natasha turned away from the pair in the service hallway, leaving them their privacy and leaned against the wall, letting her heart recover. Her books had never been this explicit. The “act”, when they spoke of it, was describe
d in frustratingly veiled references and never had they portrayed the act as the earthy, mutually pleasurable activity Vaughn and Elisa had just revealed to her. The books had painted the love act to be a flowery, poetic marvel.

  Seth. Her heart jumped again. Seth would be earthy. Seth would find it a mutually pleasurable activity. And with that thought, her whole body tightened and thrummed and an ache began between her legs.

  Seth. She hurried after him, knowing that even though she intended to offer comfort, that Seth was the sort of man to demand more than simple comfort alone.

  * * * * *

  Behind him, Seth heard the very soft sound of the door opening and closing. For a moment he froze, the decanter half-raised to his lips. With a mental curse, he lowered it to the tray, making the motion seem casual, unconscious. With his back turned, his hand was hidden, as he delved inside his jacket for the knife he normally kept in his boot.

  For too long he had lived by his wits and never forgot to keep his face to the door. He was astonished he had allowed this moment with his mother to disturb him to such a degree that he had failed to follow elementary precautions.

  The next sound he heard was the unmistakable swish of lace and taffeta. He relaxed a little and turned to face the woman, dropping his knife back into the pocket.

  Natasha Winridge. For a moment, his heart stopped. He found himself again tallying up the delicate, classic details about her that had struck him with such pleasure the first time he had seen them. There was the peeping toe of a satin-covered slipper beneath the lace edging of her petticoat. The lace edging was also on show, for she had lifted her satin skirts with one small hand to clear the floor as she walked and now she stood frozen just inside the door, her big dark blue eyes staring at him.

  Then there was the trim waist, almost certainly only a handspan around, for him. His fingers would meet at the dip over her spine he just knew was there. Her hips would be a sweeping curve from there and he would be able to rest his hands on them, feel the heat of her soft flesh. From there he could slide his hands up her torso to the ripe, round breasts that rose from the low-cut ball gown.